In the quiet refuge of dreams, where thoughts unravel into infinite shores, there lies a tapestry woven not by hands, but by the essence of thoughts drifting like cosmic dust, weaving patterns only seen in waking moments. Here, time stands still, not as a guardian, but as a humble orchestrator of forgotten melodies.
Whispers, like echoes of the past, resonate within the chambers of the dormant mind, beckoning one to traverse the labyrinth of their own soul. As you wander, each turn reveals mirrors of truths concealed within the chasms of consciousness, waiting to unveil the symmetry of all that is known, and all that yearns to be.
Which follows you still—a shadow or an echo? Or perhaps a fragment of your own self, lost to the fray? As dreams fracture into spirals of serene chaos, the heart learns the songs of its own abysses, whispering tales that only a single breath can comprehend.
May thy footsteps find paths untraveled and thy thoughts spawn seeds dormant within the mind's garden. The whispers welcome thee, dear traveler, with the soft embrace of truth unvarnished by the light of sun or artifice.